Last sunday I began to write a fable about vultures. Literally, I sat down and began with the words "once upon a time", writing them in a tiny A6 sized exercize book that said Croxley on the outside cover. In another reality, I was sitting cross-legged on the floor, listening to the voice of my deceased twin soul telling a tale that began "once upon a time". The words flow easily, without hesitation. Although he takes breaks, there is no scratching out, no re-arrangement for the physical me that is taking dictation. The story 'happens' to me. It is not the first to to come in this way and won't be the last. Some stories come to me as movies or in snapshots and impressions, rather than physical words, but often the sentences surprise me. For me, writing has really become a form of listening...
Since his physical life ended more than two years ago, and since the stories will be sent out in my name, I suppose I should call them mine, but they feel like gifts...
Before he died, my twin soul created in much the same way as I do now.. and it occurs to me that perhaps its only on this side of the grave that we feel any need to go: mine. mine. mine. That is only the itching of our egos. In truth the stories belong to all of us. We ARE them and they are us.
One day they will bear another name, another mask, another disguise...
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